


The Song Is You

by mydogwatson



Series: WHILE THE MUSIC LASTS [26]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, M/M, Music, Wedding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-05
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-28 12:51:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/992212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finally, a wedding.  And then, because it's them, disaster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Song Is You

**Author's Note:**

> Today's second story. I don't know why I'm so mean to poor John. Or am I being mean to Sherlock?

I hear music when I look at you,  
A beautiful theme of every dream  
I ever knew. I hear music when I  
touch your hand. The music is  
sweet, the words are true.  
The song is you.  
-Michael Feinstein

 

1

During a lull in the preparations Sherlock came to find John and took his hand as they slipped away and walked to the top of the small rise that overlooked the garden. Once there, they both sat on the white wooden bench. It was really the best kind of English spring day, with a flawless blue sky, light breeze, and the scent of flowers mingling with that of freshly cut grass. Not surprisingly, Mycroft had made sure his garden was perfect for the occasion. No doubt an army of minions had labored for days.

Sherlock had been quiet all morning and still did not seem inclined towards conversation. John did not allow himself to worry about it. Instead, he kept the fretting part of his mind firmly focused on the delayed arrival of the cake. Not that he cared a whit about that, but thinking about it gave him something to fret about.

“We’re lucky with the day,” John said finally.

Sherlock nodded.

“Everything all right?”

“Of course. Everything is fine.”

“You’re quiet.”

Sherlock stretched his legs out to their full length. “I’m thinking.”

“About?”

“This is a solemn day, John.”

John was still rather admiring the endless stretch of black-clad legs. “A happy day,” he pointed out.

 

Sherlock sent him a glance. “Indisputably. But also solemn.” He reached out and took John’s hand again. Instead of merely holding it, he turned it over and began to trace the lines on the palm. “Forever, John. That’s the pledge we’re making---I’m making---today. I want you to know how seriously I’m taking that vow.”

John stayed quiet, watching the slender index finger moving slowly around his hand.

“You are the center that holds. The one fixed point in an ever- changing world. I may ignore the fact that the earth orbits the sun, but never doubt that I circle you and always will.”

John turned his hand and entwined his fingers with Sherlock’s. “You are my home,” he said, his voice cracking a little.

They both leaned forward until their foreheads met.

“Forever,” Sherlock whispered, the word a soft breath against John’s lips.

“Forever,” John echoed.

The kiss was just a bare touch of lips.

After another moment, they pulled back and turned to look down into the garden of Mycroft’s country home. Their friends were beginning to take seats in front of the arbor. The violinist had started playing and the soft romantic sound floated up to where they sat.

“Well,” John said, “let’s go get married.”

“Although it seems a bit redundant after this,” Sherlock said as they stood and straightened their jackets.

John laughed quietly and they walked down the hill together.

2

The only sound in the room was the repetitive beeping of several machines monitoring the life signs of the man in the bed. Signs of life. He recognized that the constant sounds were reassuring, although he was not feeling terribly reassured. He tried to find a pattern in the beeps, but nothing would coalesce.

What made him most angry was the pointlessness of it all.

John had not been hurt trying to save a life on the battlefield. He had not been injured on a case. Although, of course, he had been doing a good deed. As usual.

It had been an accident. The unhappy combination of an idiot on a skateboard going much too fast for the conditions, a slowly moving Mrs. Hudson [her hip, again], and an unsuspected patch of black ice as John attempted to rather urgently guide their landlady away from a collision with the idiot. His feet hit the black ice and John went down heavily, with his head hitting the kerb.

Sherlock had been upstairs, thinking.

When he first heard Mrs. Hudson shrieking his name, he ignored her, because, after all, she shrieked his name a lot and it never ended well for him.

And it didn’t this time either, did it?

Then she yelled again. “It’s John!”

He was down the stairs and out the door in an instant.

Several people were standing around John’s terribly still form, including the skateboarder, who was already on his mobile with 999. Sherlock practically threw himself down onto the pavement. “John,” he whispered, resting a hand on his husband’s cold cheek. There was no movement, no sign that John heard him. There was a frightening grey cast already shadowing John’s face.

Sherlock leaned down closer and whispered into John’s ear. “I love you. Please, hold on. Don’t…leave me alone here.”

Mrs. Hudson was crying and patting his back, but he ignored her.

That had been three days ago.

John went into surgery within an hour and that went well, but now there was nothing to do but wait. The signs were that he would wake up soon. “Soon” no doubt meant something quite different to the doctor than it did to the husband.

So Sherlock was still waiting, listening to the quiet beeps.

 

He stroked John’s arm with infinite softness and began to hum the Berceuse Romantique, OP. 9 that the violinist had played at their wedding not quite two years ago.

As he hummed, Sherlock thought that he could feel John’s arm twitch just a bit. When he lifted his gaze, he discovered that John’s eyes were open. All the fears about what kind of condition John would be in when he finally woke [Sherlock never allowed himself to think ‘if’ he awoke] faded as the soft brown eyes looking at him were as kind and tender as always, if a bit cloudy.

“Hello,” Sherlock whispered. “I’ve missed you.”

John could not speak yet and his eyes were already closing again, but he made a soft humming sound and Sherlock understood immediately.

He leaned closer to John and started the Berceuse again from the beginning.

fini


End file.
